


A Smiling Slaughter

by ChloeMichelle



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-19
Updated: 2014-04-24
Packaged: 2018-01-16 08:15:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1338421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChloeMichelle/pseuds/ChloeMichelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John are given a case in which they must hunt down a brutal killer. However things become tricky, and more and more bodies crop up - all bearing the same trademark wound...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The First Victim

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at writing a fanfic, so (if you want to) please let me know what bits you liked/ disliked in the comments to help me shape the next part.

A quiet, misty morning within the city and already Sherlock was bounding around inside 221B with a similar excitement children felt Christmas morning. “Three, John! Three murders within twenty four hours!”

“Yes, thank you for reminding me,” John mumbled tiredly, sipping his coffee. “Just don’t start getting the pictures out again.”

“What was wrong with the pictures?” Sherlock asked, suddenly irritated by John’s lack of enthusiasm.

“Oh, nothing at all. Unless you want to see dead people who’ve been stabbed in the back and are lying in pools of their own blood as you’re eating dinner,” John said.

Sherlock frowned and closed his eyes, casting himself back twenty four hours before…

 

He’d got the call from Lestrade as he paced the living room, talking to John. As the phone rang he looked around and discovered that, to his astonishment, John was absent from the room. He picked up his mobile, still coming to terms with the fact he’d been abandoned, and spoke. “Sherlock Holmes.”

“Yeah, it’s me,” Lestrade said awkwardly. The sound of people talking and police sirens wailing came from the background, and Sherlock knew instantly what he was about to be asked and smirked. “Tell me where.”

Twenty minutes later he was following Lestrade down a dark alley away from the hustle of the city and ducked underneath the police tape. “His name is Archie Harries, aged twenty eight. Killed with a knife in the back,” Lestrade explained, showing him towards the body. Forensics experts swarmed around it, snapping photographs and taking swabs. The body lay, covered in a blanket, face down upon the ground.

“So the killer was worried his victim might get a cold?” Sherlock questioned jokingly, studying the scene around him.

“Nope, not quite. It seems that this was no accident, nor just some random knife attack,” Lestrade said, bending down and taking a corner of the blanket. “We put this over the body to stop the press getting any pictures.” He peeled the blanket back, revealing the wound that had killed the man.

The puncture, done cleanly with a knife, showed that the killer (whoever they were) had precision as well as bloodlust, for they had decided to engrave a smiley face on to the victim’s back.

Sherlock crouched down, intrigued. “A trademark killing, or copycat?” he wondered aloud, studying all aspects of the cut.

“If it’s a trademark, it's the beginning of one and there'll be more to come. We’ve never seen anything like this before, so I’d say no to copycat,” Lestrade said, sounding worried.

“George, I need you to send me the -”

“It’s Greg, Sherlock.”

“What?”

Lestrade sighed heavily. “My name. It’s Greg, not George.”

“Oh. Whatever, it’s unimportant. I need you to get me the records of this man. Anything that covers the last year, any events. And any evidence that may suggest that this was a copycat killing,” Sherlock said, walking away and smiling to himself. The killer had just made a great case for him.

 

John frowned into the shop window, but quickly stopped as he saw how ridiculous he looked through his reflection. True, the task was a tricky one, and seeing as Sherlock wasn’t prepared to help him in any way, he had to choose alone.

Sherlock’s birthday was approaching, and John had no clue what to get him. Even Mrs Hudson was struggling. He’d considered all sorts, but nothing that would truly represent the level of friendship the pair shared.

As he gazed into the window his mobile began to ring. He extracted it from his pocket and saw it was Sherlock calling. “Hey, hello,” he answered hastily, trying to sound as though he wasn’t shopping for a birthday present. Not that Sherlock could read his mind through the phone.

 _Well, I wouldn’t put it past him_ , John thought.

“New case. Meet me back at Baker Street,” Sherlock said.

“And what if I’m busy?” John tested him.

“Shopping for my birthday gift can wait, John. I don’t know why you’re getting a gift at all; I told you I don’t want one.”

John froze momentarily, but quickly regained himself. “I want to get you something, Sherlock. It’s what friends do.”

“Hmm. Whatever. Just get down to Baker Street.” And that was it. The conversation was over. John knew that Sherlock wasn’t ordering him to Baker Street, though; he was requesting his presence.

And Sherlock knew John would always be there.

 

Back at 221B, Sherlock began to analyse the evidence they already had and the pair sifted through Archie Harries’ records. “How do you know that the reason Archie was killed happened within the last year?” John asked, passing a file to Sherlock.

He took it and began to rifle through it, pinning up information on the wall. “It’s unlikely the killer would hold a grudge for longer than a year. If so, why choose to only act upon it now?” he questioned. When John shrugged, Sherlock sighed. “It’s also likely to be someone that the victim was scared of, suggesting that they knew the killer.”

“How do you work that one out?” John asked, surprised. Sherlock closed his eyes and took himself back to the crime scene in his mind. He imagined crouching down, studying the body, and attempted to ignore Lestrade telling him what his name was...

“The murder didn’t take place in the alleyway. The victim was too neatly arranged, his limbs too straight for someone who has supposedly just fallen face down after being attacked. The cuts on the body were too neat, too; it would take immense concentration for someone to make those sort of puncture wounds and at that depth and width across his back. The murderer wouldn’t have been able to do that in an alleyway where there is a constant risk of being stumbled upon, therefore the only logical explanation is that the killer took Archie Harries home after threatening him, killed him without fear of being found, and dumped his body in a deserted alleyway and arranged it to make it look as though the murder took place there.”

He opened his eyes again to find John sitting down, his mouth open as he attempted to comprehend what Sherlock had just said. “That was, um -”

“Brilliant? Fantastic?” Sherlock suggested, and John nodded. “Thank you, John. But seeing as remind me every time I make a deduction, don’t be offended if I’m not overly flattered.”

“Shouldn’t you tell Lestrade?” John asked, recovering himself. “It’s his case, after all. He has let you in on it.”

“You tell him if you want. There’s more important things to be doing,” Sherlock said, waving the suggestion away impatiently with his hand. He picked up one of the files, sat down in his chair and began to read.

He read for hours. Twice John attempted to speak to him, but both times he was ignored. Sherlock’s mobile, which sat a few inches next to him, was also ignored as multiple texts appeared on his phone.

At two in the afternoon, John couldn’t take it anymore and snatched up the phone. “I’ll answer it then, shall I?” he said angrily. “Mm-hm. You do that,” Sherlock replied vaguely, not even looking up. John began to read through the messages and clear the missed calls - all from Lestrade. “He’s getting angry with you, Sherlock. He wants to know what progress you’ve made. Oh, and he wants you to call him. Urgently, it seems,” John said.

“He always says it’s urgent,” Sherlock said, irritated at the disturbances. John held out the mobile expectantly, and Sherlock opened his mouth in protest. It took nearly twenty minutes to coax Sherlock into calling Lestrade. Eventually he did, throwing John a dirty look as the phone rang.

“Where the hell have you been? Why haven’t you been answering your phone? I said it’s urgent!” Lestrade shouted down the phone, though with a hint of relief in his voice. “Sorry. Didn't hear it ring,” Sherlock said smoothly. Lestrade began to mutter obscenities under his breath, but was cut off by Sherlock’s question. “What’s so urgent, then?”

“We need you to get down here. There, uh... well, we’ve found another body. We were right. This is the beginning of a set of trademark killings.”


	2. Two More for the Mortuary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Sherlock and John delve into the past of the victims, the killer strikes again...

John attempted to stand close to Sherlock to keep warm, but it became increasingly difficult as he hopped around the fresh body to examine it. The smiley face, carved with the same care and detail as the first, intrigued Sherlock. He was able to quickly deduct that this victim - a woman named Susan Baxter, aged thirty-six - also knew the killer. He briefly explained his theory to Lestrade, who looked equally as stunned as John had been.

“What’s the killer playing at? It’s not even been six hours since the first body was found, and now they’re giving us a secod one to deal with?” Lestrade questioned, looking to Sherlock for answers.

Sherlock ignored him momentarily, bending down and examining the wrists of the victim. “There’s obvious signs of rope burn here,” he muttered, more to himself than the others. He gently turned the woman’s neck over to see her face.

There were two signs of something strange; first that she had been gagged, presumably to keep her quiet. Secondly, there was the sign of recognition. As an anti-social man, Sherlock found this most disturbing and puzzling. How did he know this woman?

He pointed out the marks around her mouth to the other two and straightened up. “Get me the coroner’s report for Archie Harries. I want to see if there were similar signs of a struggle on him,” he said, beginning to walk away from the scene. John and Lestrade followed instinctively.

“What struggle? How do you know there was a struggle?” Lestrade asked. Sherlock stopped and turned around to face him. “The victims knew the attacker but they feared them, too. They were tied up, gagged to stop them fighting as they were killed.”

“So they were threatened?” John queried, and Sherlock nodded. “But why?”

“The two victims must be linked in some way. I need all the records, everything you can get me,” Sherlock said to Lestrade. “I can’t just hand over all the records! I brought you in on this case to help us, not to go off and do your own thing!” Lestrade argued weakly.

Sherlock began to walk away again, waving a hand dismissively. “If you want this case solved before any more people are killed, you know where to find me,” he called over his shoulder.

At six o’clock the files he’d requested were delivered. Taking up most of the living space in 221B, they had to tread carefully to avoid knocking things and losing any sense of organisation.

An hour into looking, Mrs Hudson came in to ask if they were hungry. “Yes,” John replied immediately.

“Can’t eat now, eating slows me down!” Sherlock shouted from the corner of the room, where he was partially buried under files.

“I’ll cook you something, dear,” Mrs Hudson said, turning back to John and smiling.

“Mrs Hudson, you are a saint,” he said as his stomach rumbled loudly. “Perhaps you could make a cup of tea, too?”

“Just this once, though. I’m your landlady, not your housekeeper, remember,” she said, tottering out of the living room. She made him the cup of tea, and a bowl of pasta to eat as he rummaged through the boxes.

“John,” Sherlock said suddenly as he took the first mouthful of food. “John, look at this.”

He passed John the file he was holding. Inside he found the coroner’s report for Archie Harries, and the photographs of him lying face down on the ground. “Nice, Sherlock. Just what I want to see as I start eating,” he said, suddenly less hungry.

“Look at the report. The coroner states that there were signs of rope burn around his ankles and wrists. You get rope burn if you struggle to a considerable degree. Both victims put up a fight, it seems,” Sherlock said.

John began to read, nodding slowly in agreement as Sherlock bit his lip and thought hard. The names of the victims rang bells inside his head, especially Susan Baxter. He knew her from somewhere - at least he knew her name, recognised her face, but couldn’t remember how or why they’d met...

“I need more detailed information on Susan Baxter,” he said, still thinking.

“Why? You said that any run-ins with the killer would have happened within the last year,” John said, returning to the pasta a little half-heartedly.

“I know I did. But... well, it may go further back than that,” Sherlock mumbled. John looked up again, a grin spreading across his face.

“You were wrong,” he said slowly. Sherlock scowled at him. “No, I wasn’t wrong. Potentially, it could have happened within the last year and may not be in the files,” he said, but John was laughing. “I wasn’t wrong, John!”

There was a knock at the living room door, and the pair both looked around to find Mrs Hudson. “You’ve got a visitor, Sherlock,” she said, stepping aside to reveal the guest.

It was Lestrade. He held up a disc as Mrs Hudson collected John’s empty mug and pasta bowl. “We found this. It’s the CCTV of the underpass where Susan Baxter was found,” he said.

“I thought there wasn’t any CCTV?” John questioned. Lestrade nodded as he slotted the disc into John’s laptop. “We didn’t think there was originally. But a building site nearby have had a couple of break-ins recently, and they wanted to catch the culprit. Seems like they got a bit more than they bargained for...”

They watched an empty underpass for a few moments. Then, quite slowly, a figure backed into the frame. Tall, skinny but strong, they dragged the body into the underpass and arranged it so that Susan Baxter lay face down, her limbs tucked by her side neatly - anyone walking past could have mistaken her for sleeping, if it wasn’t for the smiling face engraved on her back and bloodsoaked clothes.

The figure straightened up and stepped back to admire their handiwork. In that moment, Sherlock pointed at the screen importantly. “Back! Go back!”

“Why?” Lestrade questioned.

“Just do it!” Sherlock said loudly, gesturing again. Lestrade took the footage back until he was told to stop, and they watched again as the person stood up. “Pause it there!” Sherlock pointed at the figure’s head. “You see that?”

It was quite difficult for the other two to work out what was so important about that moment of the footage, as the killer had their hood up to obscure their face. However, upon closer inspection, John’s eyes widened and he pointed too. “That’s hair,” he said, and Sherlock nodded. “Long hair. Too long and straight for a man, plus a figure of that sort means that our killer is... a girl.”

“Why do you sound so surprised?” Sherlock asked, looking at him curiously. John shrugged, stammering a little. “I wasn’t, I guess I just - I just never expected the killer to be a girl, that’s all. It seemed too... gruesome.”

“You’d be surprised what people are capable of,” Sherlock said wryly. He looked at Lestrade, who seemed slightly baffled by the whole affair. “Get me more files. Anything you can on the two victims. Personal details, too, as far back as you can go. These murders are connected, share the same trademark. That means the victims are also connected. But how?”

“It’s going to be difficult. Neither of them had a criminal record, not even a parking ticket. Any personal information will have to come from their families,” Lestrade said.

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “Say that again,” he ordered.

“Personal information will -”

“No, before that!”

“Neither of them have a criminal record.”

Sherlock was piecing things together in his mind, and ignored John when he asked what the significance of a criminal record was. He had met Susan Baxter, had even comforted her awkwardly after she ran from a courtroom in tears...

“OH!” he suddenly shouted, causing John and Lestrade to jump. “The link! The link is clever, so clever yet so small that even I didn’t get it!”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” John muttered, but Sherlock ignored the comment and began to pace the room. “The two victims were both hardworking city goers who’d never even dream of breaking the law. That makes them eligible for something that could direct a lot of hatred from someone towards them, could cause a grudge to form against them,” he said quickly, smiling as he worked it out.

Lestrade’s mobile began to ring and he excused himself before stepping out into the hallway. “I don’t understand. What does it all mean, Sherlock? What were they eligible for?” John asked, confused.

Sherlock stopped and turned to face him, smiling slightly. “Jury service,” he said simply.

“Yes, I’ll be there soon. Thank you,” Lestrade said from the hallway. He reappeared, tucking his mobile into his pocket and looking grim. Sherlock knew what was coming before he’d even said it. “Another body?” he asked, and Lestrade nodded. “Yeah. Dumped in a car park.”

Nearly half an hour later the three were stood in the car park. “It seems a group of kids found him. They’ve been hanging around all evening, trying to find a car to joyride in,” Lestrade explained.

The body lay sprawled across the backseat of the car, face down. The killer wanted to make it clear that this was her work.

“What’s his name?” Sherlock inquired, climbing as far into the car as possible without contaminating the scene. “Jack Kingford, aged forty,” Lestrade told him. Sherlock examined the wrists and mouth. Nothing was different; this victim, too, had fought against the killer. “And I suppose he didn’t have a criminal record, either?” Sherlock guessed.

Lestrade shook his head, and Sherlock smiled as he retreated from the car. “I need to speak to the people that found him,” he said.

The kids stood at the edge of the car park, watching on enthusiastically and not looking too traumatised by the situation. Sherlock and John approached and the group started nudging and muttering to each other, looking excited as they were about to be questioned.

“How long have you been in this car park exactly?” Sherlock asked, ignoring the whispers. One boy who looked no older than ten shrugged at the front. “Couple of hours. Three at the most,” he answered.

“And what about the car? Was that there before you got here?” John questioned. The boys shook their heads. “Nah. Someone turned up, got out and left it there just as we arrived. Walked off and never came back,” the young boy said. Sherlock was surprised by this. “What did they look like? Did you see them?”

“Only from a distance. Tall, dark hair. Had a hood up, plus it's dark, so I couldn’t really see much,” the boy described, screwing his face up to remember. Sherlock began to walk off, and John had to turn quickly to follow him. They’d barely walked five steps when the boy shouted out after them. “Oh, and heels!”

Sherlock stopped and looked back, curious. “What did you say?”

“The driver. She was wearing high heels. It made loads of noise,” the boys said, nodding as he remembered.

“Sherlock!”

Lestrade beckoned from the other side of the car park, looking at the ground. Sherlock and John walked over to find the majority of the area had been lit with temporary floodlights. “See here,” Lestrade said as they approached, pointing at something. As they got closer, they realised what it was. “Footprints.”

The killer had clearly stepped into some blood and, unaware of her actions, had made a trail for them to follow. True, she had also been wearing heels. “There are signs that she’s twisted her ankles,” Sherlock said suddenly, pointing at certain prints. “Clearly she’s uncomfortable wearing high heels, suggesting she’s either young or hasn’t had much practice in this style of shoe. Or both.”

He straightened up, looking from John to Lestrade. “I think I know who our killer is. The question, though, is how can it be her when she should be in prison?”


	3. Dealing with Demons of the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John attempts to stop anymore murders being committed, whilst Sherlock realises he faces a brutal fate...

**_Eleven years ago_ **

Sherlock emerged from the courtroom first, trying to mask that he had enjoyed watching the trial. Jury members had filed out behind him, all muttering and shaking their heads. The case was a distressing one, and highly publicised. The jury were under a lot of pressure, and had to prepare themselves for the masses of photographers and journalists before leaving the court. Sherlock had hung back, breathing in the scent that the Old Bailey gave him. Justice was being done, and it showed that his work paid off.

He heard a sob not far from where he was standing. A woman. He tried to ignore it, but the sniffing became louder and curiosity got the better of him. Slowly, he peered around the corner to find a young woman crying into a tissue, her long blonde hair masking the tears on her face. “Oh. I, um... hello?” Sherlock felt awkward about the situation and was about to leave when the woman looked up. “Hello?”She dabbed at her eyes again and squinted at Sherlock. “Sorry, but do I know you?” she asked, sniffing.

“Er, no. You don’t. I just... well, I heard you crying,” he confessed, feeling embarrassed about the whole situation. The woman’s sobs resumed, and he didn’t know where to go or what to do. He should comfort her, but how did he do that? “Are you.... okay?” he attempted, and the crying grew louder. “Right, so you’re not okay.”

“It’s just me being silly. It’s just with the case going on, and it makes me miss my family a lot,” the woman said, calming down a little bit to talk to Sherlock. “I mean who would do such a thing?”

Sherlock knew the case well. He’d worked on it and found the killer. It was the first case he felt uncomfortable with, where he felt like they may have got the right person. Half the police force thought he was mad to blame a such an innocent girl.

Scarlett Clay was just thirteen when she was tried and found guilty of murdering her mother, father and six year old brother. She was clever about the murder; staged it so that it occurred in the middle of the night, broke the back door and kitchen window to make it look as though there had been a break-in and then hid in a cupboard. When the police arrived the next day they found her, trembling from cold and fear, claiming that she had heard the screams of her brother and therefore hidden. Nobody doubted her story for a second.

Except for when CCTV showed that nobody was on the street at the time of the killings, the door had been broken from the inside and DNA matches were made to the only living person in the house was -

“Scarlett Clay. She was sentenced to fifteen years in prison. Apparently she was let out two months ago after an appeal. She’s only served eleven years of her sentence.”

Back in the present day Sherlock paced around 221B as John stifled a yawn. It was the morning after the third body had been found, and they were running on very little sleep. “Did she confess?” John asked, rubbing his eyes. Sherlock turned slowly, nodding. “Yes. She was taken for questioning, admitted everything. I was there, John - I got to witness her confession.”

“So why did she do it?” Sherlock sat down, scratching his chin. “Nobody knows,” he said.

“What?”

“Nobody knows why she did it. She just confessed that she did, and that she didn’t regret it. She said that maybe one day she’d tell us, but there would only be one occasion that she’d tell us; the day she was going to die. And then she laughed,” Sherlock said.

“Christ. So we could potentially be waiting years for a confession?” John asked. Sherlock nodded, and sighed heavily. “Hang on, though,” John said, thinking about the story he’d just been told. “You never said why Susan Baxter was crying.”

“Oh, yeah,” Sherlock realised. He closed his eyes to remember the moment again. “She was crying because she had a son at the time. She told me he was the same age as Billy Clay, Scarlett’s brother. Seeing the photographs of Billy dead in his bed made her upset, made her want to be with her family again. She told me that,” he said, sounding a little proud of himself. When he opened his eyes, John was smiling slightly. “What?”

“You. Actually talking to somebody. Comforting them, even. It just seems weird,” John said, taking another sip of coffee. His phone began to ring, and he pulled it from his pocket. It was Mary. Sherlock stalked off moodily as John answered the phone. “I was going to call, I just forgot. We’ve had three murders,” he explained.

“Yeah, I saw on the news. Have you got Sherlock’s present yet?” Mary asked.

“Nope. I was hoping that you’d come up with something. I haven’t got a clue what to get him, nobody has,” John said, sure to speak quietly to avoid Sherlock overhearing.

“Well hurry up and get him something! It’s his surprise party on Saturday,” Mary reminded him. Mrs Hudson had arranged a small gathering in which only a few of the people closest to Sherlock were coming over. It was meant to be a surprise, however they all had the uncomfortable feeling that he already knew.

Sherlock returned into the living room as John bade his wife goodbye, and stood facing the wall in which all important evidence was pinned up. “Scarlett Clay was released from prison two months ago. In that time she’s managed to track down and kill three of the jury members who served her a guilty verdict eleven years ago. I doubt she’ll be stopping any time soon, so it places the remaining nine at risk.”

“Isn’t there protection or something? Some kind of help the police can offer?” John asked. He stood up, joining Sherlock at the wall. “Sherlock? We can’t just let these people wander around without knowing there’s a serial killer after them. Phone Lestrade, see what he can do.”

“I’m busy. You call him if you feel that way obliged,” Sherlock muttered. John looked at his friend, his arms crossed. “Don’t you care about them? That they might die?”

“What have I told you before, John? Caring is -”

“It’s not an advantage. Yeah, I know. But they can get help - and we can offer it,” John said, hoping Sherlock would see sense. Instead he turned and looked at John. “There’s a killer who has already murdered three people within the last twenty four hours. You think putting the remaining potential victims in a room will stop Clay from getting in there and carrying on killing?”

“No, but it’s a start. We’ll slow her down,” John argued. He took out his phone and dialled Lestrade’s number. “Fine. You stay here, and you solve the murders. But I’m going to try and stop any more from happening.”

 

By eleven o’clock John and Lestrade had been locating possible victims, and they stood on the doorstep of the first man they had tracked down. His name was Michel Abrahams, a middle aged man who looked exceptionally confused when he was told that he may be a target for a murder. “Murder?”

“Yes. We have reason to believe that Scarlett Clay, the teenager you gave a guilty verdict to eleven years ago, is hunting down the jurors and killing them,” Lestrade explained. John hung back. Lestrade was easier to work with in some ways, but he did miss Sherlock and the thrill he got when accompanying him on a case.

“I didn’t give her a guilty sentence alone! We all did!” Michel stammered, shaking his head as though refusing to accept the news.

“You’ve read the papers, right?” John asked, and Michel nodded. “Then you know why we’re here, and you know that what we’re telling you is true. Scarlett is hunting down her jurors and she’s killing them viciously. There’s no point in denying it.” Michel looked between the detective and the accomplice.

“So what? You want to offer me some protection?” he asked.

“For the time being. Until we’ve found Scarlett and have her in custody,” Lestrade said. Michel nodded slowly. “I suppose that makes sense,” he said in agreement. “I accept.”

 

When John arrived back at Baker Street he was shocked and angry to see that a window had been broken inside 221B. He rushed up the stairs to find Sherlock sitting comfortably in his chair examining a rock closely. “What’s going on? You know there’s glass everywhere and a broken window behind you?”

“Yes of course I know all that, how could I have possibly missed it?” Sherlock responded, not looking up from the rock. John nodded slowly, clicking his jaw. “And you don’t plan on doing anything about it?”

“Nope. Not for the time being,” Sherlock said. He stood up and threw the rock to John, who just managed to catch it. “Take a look and tell me what you think.”

John turned it over in his hands, and found that there was a note attached to the other side. “You’re next, Mr Holmes,” he read aloud, looking up at Sherlock. “You think this is from our killer? From Scarlett Clay?”

“Of course it’s from Scarlett Clay.”

“But… why would she be threatening you? You weren’t a juror,” John said, confused.

“No, but I did work on the case. Think John. She’s hunting down people she dislikes, people who worked towards sending her to prison. Now that she knows we’re on to her, she’s saving the best murder until last,” Sherlock said, smiling slightly to himself. “My murder.”


	4. Holmes vs Clay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Sherlock finally meets Scarlett Clay, he must do everything in his power to stop himself becoming the fourth victim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this part has taken so long to upload, I'm juggling four A-levels at the same time as writing this. Please (if you want) let me know what you thought/ liked/ disliked to help me shape the next fanfic.

John spent the evening in total silence. He’d pleaded with Sherlock to go into protection, to receive some form of help from the police, but none of it was any use. Sherlock remained in 221B still working on the case.

“Besides, if Clay attempts to get at me whilst in this flat, I have you here,” Sherlock said.

“And what am I going to do against someone who has already killed six people?” John asked angrily, breaking the silence.

“Well you’ve killed a man for me before. You went to Afghanistan,” Sherlock pointed out.

“As a doctor.”

“Hmm. You keep reminding us of that whenever modesty isn’t needed or appreciated,” Sherlock muttered.

“Sherlock, please,” John attempted one last time to make him see sense. “Go into witness protection. You can still work on the case.”

“It’ll become impossible to catch her if I go into hiding. She’s clever. She can sense when we’re on to her. That’s why she’s not targeting jurors anymore - because she’s planning my death and waiting to strike,” Sherlock said.

“Then damn catching her! Your safety is the most important thing, Sherlock!” John shouted, losing all sense of composure. He threw his hands up in exasperation. “You just don’t get it, do you? You don’t understand that if Scarlett Clay gets to you, she will kill you and then the rest of us are left behind!”

“You’ll move on, you always do. You managed before,” Sherlock muttered.

“Managed?” John was beside himself with rage now. He stood up angrily and pointed at Sherlock. “You think Lestrade managed? You think Mrs Hudson managed? You think... you think I managed? You’re wrong, Sherlock. You’re so, so wrong.” And, without another word, he left.

 _Good_ , Sherlock thought. _At least he won’t be in the way..._

Earlier that day, whilst John was running around with Lestrade and Mrs Hudson was busy cleaning, he had received a text. A text he knew to be from Scarlett Clay.

 _9 o’clock, Flat 14 Lucifer Estate. See you there, Mr Holmes_ , it had read. It was vital that John did not go with Sherlock as he’d attempt to stop him and, as the clock began to tick closer to nine he had to do something to drive him away.

Plus, he didn’t want John to get hurt because of him.

 _He already has been hurt_ , his mind said. _And it was by you_.

Sherlock stood up and shrugged away the voice before putting on his scarf and heading out. He walked instead of taking a cab and was at the estate a few minutes earlier than nine. Slowly, with caution, he went inside.

The Lucifer Estate was a run-down, derelict building - perfect for a murder to take place. It had been announced months ago that the flats would be refurbished, but nothing had been done. Sherlock took his torch from the inside of his coat and shone it on the nearest door. It was number 10. He went along the corridor and shone the torch on each floor when he found it - flat 14, the door ajar but no lights on inside. He stepped inside, peering around every corner. He wanted to talk to Clay, but at the same time he had to remind himself that she was a killer.

And he - the target of her next murder - had just walked right into her hands.

In the centre of the living room there was a table. When he hovered the torch over it he found a large number of knives and a stencil set in the shape of a smiley face.

“Nobody is ever happy in death, Mr Holmes. I wanted to make them happy. Like it?”

A light flickered on and Sherlock sighed. “We finally meet. How very dramatic of you to set this all up.”

He turned to finally come face to face with Scarlett Clay. Not much had changed since she had stood trial eleven years ago; she still had the same long brown hair, the same freckles across her face. One thing was different though. He’d noticed it the moment he’d locked eyes with her. Her eyes. Once young and able to look innocently on at a crime scene where the culprit was herself, they were now older, no longer hiding from her offences. There was a certain triumph in them, and she smirked at him as she walked further into the room. “Look at you. You’re foolish to come here alone,” she said.

“Curious, not foolish. Curious as to what you have to say,” Sherlock corrected her.

“What makes you think I have anything to say? I’m here to kill you, and you’re here to die,” Scarlett said lightly, tilting her head to one side and smiling as she studied him. “You’re the one who saw me for who I was.”

Sherlock looked at her sharply, narrowing his eyes. “A monster?”

“Hmm, not quite. Just a killer is how I’d describe myself. And you saw it. Saw I wasn’t as innocent as I acted,” Scarlett said.

“It was some good acting.”

“Oh, I know. I laughed at everyone behind their backs. The detectives, the press, all of them - idiots. But not you. And I knew that when I got out, I’d find those that punished me and make sure they suffered too.”

“Good plan.”

“Indeed. But first, I do have something to say. You were right again, Sherlock Holmes! I want to explain to you why I killed my family,” Scarlett said. She crossed the room and stood at a small desk against the wall, fumbling with something. “Remember all those years ago, Mr Holmes? The day I was charged with the murders? I told the police that I’d never say why until the day I die. Well today is the day I die. Isn’t it?”

“You tell me. What makes you think you’ll die today?” Sherlock asked.

“The phone in your pocket.”

Scarlett span around so quickly that Sherlock barely had time to see the needle in her hand. She jabbed him in the neck, then pushed him to the ground. The drug - whatever it was - was taking effect fast. He couldn’t fight back as she snatched the phone from his pocket and held it to her ear. His eyes were beginning to shut as he heard her speak to Lestrade. “Don’t worry about your Mr Holmes. He’s safe with me... for now.”

 

John had only just got through the door and been greeted by Mary when his mobile rang. It was Lestrade. “John, get over to the Lucifer Estate! Flat 66!” Lestrade sounded as though he’d been running.

“Why? What’s the matter?” John asked.

“It’s Sherlock. He’s gone to meet Scarlett Clay. She’s going to kill him,” Lestrade told him. John nearly dropped the phone. “Why would he do that? He knows she’s after him!”

“Because he’s a bloody idiot! Now get down there!” And with that, Lestrade had gone. John stood for a moment, dazed. Then everything that Lestrade had just said, everything that Sherlock had said earlier slotted into place in his mind and he knew he had to leave.

“John? What’s the matter?” Mary asked as John rushed upstairs to their bedroom. He pulled open the wardrobe door, took down the shoebox and pulled out the gun. “It’s Sherlock. He’s only gone and met up with a murderer.”

“I’ll give you a lift,” Mary said, putting on her coat and grabbing the car keys. After five minutes of Mary driving wildly, they were at the Lucifer Estate. “There’s no sign of Lestrade,” John muttered.

“I’m sure he’ll be here soon. It’s too dangerous for you to go in, John,” Mary warned him. He nodded slowly, then pushed open the car door. “Sod it. Sherlock’s in danger, too. Tell Lestrade when he get here that I’m inside.”

 

When Sherlock opened his eyes he wasn’t in the same room as before. In fact, he wasn’t even in the same flat. This flat was brighter and was painted blue. There were some candles burning on a shelf and on an old chest of drawers. He realised then that he was elevated. He looked from wrist to wrist and sighed at the handcuffs. They were around his ankles too.

He could hear humming. He turned his head as far as he could to see Scarlett twirling a knife and smiling at him happily. “I’m glad you’re awake. Now the fun can begin,” she said merrily.

Sherlock felt a shiver go up his back and frowned. “My coat and scarf... what have you done with them?”

“On the floor,” Scarlett pointed with the knife. “You won’t be needing them much longer.”

“Where are we, then?” Sherlock asked, swivelling his eyes around so that he could get a good view of the new flat.

“The sixth floor, flat sixty-six. The devils number, Mr Holmes. I bet that’s what you think of me.”

“And how did we get up here?”

“So many questions! Don’t think that by being inquisitive that you’ll prolong your life,” Scarlett said irritably. She sighed and continued, “The good thing about prison was that I could receive an education. I studied mechanics. When I came here the lifts weren’t working, but as I’d worked out the basics I could get them going again. There’s nobody to hear your pleas up here.”

“Oh, please. I’d never plea for my life,” Sherlock said, a little bored and offended.

“Really? Then I confess, Mr Holmes, I’m a little disappointed. Because all the others did,” Scarlett whispered gleefully, laughing manically at the idea of it.

 

On the ground level John had just finished exploring flat fourteen when the lift doors opened. He was surprised at this, as he knew how old the building was and thought they’d be long out of order. He wondered if maybe, just maybe, Scarlett Clay had tricked them - as she had done so many times - and she and Sherlock were on another floor. Sighing, but determined to find his friend, he climbed into the lift and pressed the button to the second floor.

 

“So do you want to know?”

Scarlett came and knelt down in front of Sherlock so that their faces were inches apart. “Do you want to know why I killed my family?”

“Enlighten me.”

Scarlett smiled sadly. “I was thirteen years old. My brother, young as he was, was the star of the family. Best football player of the school football team, brightest pupil in his class - you name it. Whereas I... I was the dumb kid. The one in booster classes because she couldn’t even do the simplest of maths.”

“That’s no excuse to murder them, though,” Sherlock pointed out.

“Oh, it was every reason. One day I heard my mother talking about my brother to another mum. When she was asked if she was proud of me, she said I was the disappointment of the family but that there was always one. Two nights later I killed her. I killed them all.”

A strange silence settled over the room. Scarlett looked angry, hurt even after all the years. Then she straightened up and looked down at Sherlock, placing the stencil set on to his back. “Now, Mr Holmes... time to die.”

“Don’t move.”

John stood in the doorway, the gun pointing directly at Scarlett. She turned slowly and smiled, chuckling at the sight. “I never knew you had a little sidekick. Did he help send me to prison? Should I kill him too?”

“No!” Sherlock shouted suddenly, but Scarlett had already raised the knife.

The sound of the gun was so deafening that it took them all a few seconds to realise that Scarlett was bleeding from two wounds. She held them, smiling slightly even then. “You see, Mr Holmes? I was right. This is the day I die,” she said. She fell back against the wall next to the chest of drawers. It was then that her eyes widened and her hand reached upward. “But I never leave a crime unfinished. It’s still your death day, too.”

She grabbed the candle and threw it on to the old carpet, where it the first flame leapt into life.

The three of them stared at it for a moment as the fire illuminated the room, transfixed by the dancing glow. Then Scarlett shuddered and closed her eyes, and John realised his priorities.

“Sherlock,” he mumbled, heading towards his friend. He began to uncuff him, fumbling with the chains in the panic. The heat was distracting, and he noticed how quickly the fire was catching. Finally he got the chains undone and helped Sherlock up. Even in the middle of a fire Sherlock managed a smirk. “I told you you’d be handy if any killers came round.”

John laughed shakily as Sherlock peered through the haze of fire. He could no longer make out the body of Scarlett Clay, and knew that the flames had embraced her into a fiery death. “Come on. Lets get out of here!" he shouted, choking a little on the smoke.

The pair ran from the flat, down the stairs and had just hurtled through the front doors into the car park when the flat exploded above them. They looked up as Lestrade and Mary rushed forwards to help. “Scarlett Clay is dead,” Sherlock informed Lestrade. He suddenly felt a shiver again and turned back to look at the building. “My coat and scarf! They’re still in the flat!”

The other three glanced at each other and began to laugh, relieved. Relieved that they had lived, that there was no longer a killer on their streets. Because they were safe.

 

_**Two days later** _

Everyone was gathered inside 221B with a drink and a smile. Sherlock stood amongst them, desperate to get back to solving a case. That was what he needed - a good case as a birthday treat.

“Here you go,” John said, handing him a carefully wrapped gift. Sherlock took it, looking at him. “I told you not to get a present. Doesn’t anyone ever listen to me?”

“Usually, yes. But... well, just open it,” John prompted him. Sherlock unwrapped the gift and out fell a scarf similar to his old blue one. “Well, we saw how gutted you were the other day about losing your old one in the fire. So we though we’d get you a new one. Practically identical, though. What do you think?” John asked.

Sherlock nodded. “Thank you,” he managed to say gratefully.

“Incredible. It’s the only time he’s never had to be prompted into saying thanks,” Lestrade said, awed.

But Sherlock was thankful to all of them. Not that he’d ever admit that.

But he was even more thankful when he was told two hours later that there was a dead body waiting for him that had been fished out of the Thames.


End file.
